Chapter 6 #2
"VIOLET!" Lucy's voice shatters the moment as she calls down from upstairs. "I FOUND THE PERFECT BOOK!"
Hudson drops his hand and steps back as if burned. He clears his throat. "You'd better go up. She'll keep shouting until you do."
I nod, trying to collect myself. "Right. The story."
"We can... continue this discussion after," he says, not quite meeting my eyes.
"I'd like that," I tell him, heading for the stairs.
I pause at the bottom step and look back at him. "For what it's worth, Hudson, I understand the stakes. I know how important this is to you and your girls. I'm not afraid of what this arrangement would entail, even without the..." I gesture vaguely between us, "physical aspects."
His eyes darken again. "And if I said I wanted to revisit that particular aspect at a later date?"
A thrill runs through me. "I'd say that's definitely a point we could discuss," I answer boldly, holding his gaze.
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "Go read to my kid, Goldie. Before she wakes the whole mountain with her shouting."
I climb the stairs with a smile of my own, my wet shirt forgotten.
I pull into our driveway just after ten, my mind spinning with everything that happened at Hudson's.
My lips still tingle from how close we came to kissing, and my skin feels electric.
Three days ago, I was drowning in worry about losing Mom's house.
Now I'm contemplating marriage to a mountain man with three daughters.
Life comes at you fast, as they say.
The house is dark except for the blue glow of the TV in the living room. I find Dad sprawled on the couch, empty beer bottles scattered across the coffee table. He doesn't stir when I close the door, but I know he's not fully asleep—his breathing isn't deep enough.
"I'm home," I announce, flipping on the lamp.
He grunts, squinting against the sudden light. "Bout time."
I start gathering the empty bottles, trying not to let my irritation show. Four months behind on the mortgage, and he's still drinking away what little money we have left. If Mom could see this...
"I've made a decision," I say, dumping the bottles into the recycling bin with more force than necessary. "About the house."
This gets his attention. He pushes himself upright, running a hand over his stubbled face. "What decision?"
I take a deep breath, perching on the edge of the armchair across from him. "I'm getting married."
His bloodshot eyes widen. "You're what now?"
"Getting married," I repeat, my voice steadier than I feel. "To Hudson Wilder."
"The ex-biker?" Dad's face contorts in disbelief. "From the north ridge?"
"Yes."
"Jesus Christ, Violet." He shakes his head, looking more alert now. "You can't be serious. You barely know the man."
"I know enough," I counter. "He's a good father. He built that beautiful house with his own hands. And he needs a wife to help him get custody of his daughters."
Dad narrows his eyes. "And what do you get out of this arrangement?"
"Fifty thousand dollars," I say bluntly. "Enough to catch up on the mortgage and keep us afloat for a while."
The shock on his face would almost be comical if the situation weren't so serious.
"He's paying you to marry him?" Dad's voice rises incredulously. "What is this, the flipping 1800s?"
"It's a business arrangement," I explain, keeping my tone even. "He needs a wife to strengthen his custody case. I need money to save Mom's house. It's a win-win."
"A business arrangement," he repeats flatly. "Do you hear yourself?"
"Do you have a better idea?" I challenge. "Because we're out of options, Dad. The bank isn't going to wait forever."
He falls silent, running a hand through his thinning hair. I can see the shame and frustration warring in his expression.
"How old is this guy anyway?" he finally asks.
"Thirty-eight."
"Christ, Violet. He's almost as old as I am!"
"Sixteen years older than me," I correct him. "And age is just a number."
Dad snorts. "That's what predators tell their victims."
"He's not a predator," I snap, anger flaring. "He's a father fighting to get his children back from their drug-addicted mother. He's the stable parent, but the system is rigged against him because of his past."
"His past with an outlaw motorcycle club," Dad points out. "Not exactly a Boy Scout."
"People change. He left that life years ago." I lean forward. "Look, I'm not asking for your permission. I'm telling you what's happening. The wedding is on Tuesday at the courthouse."
"Tuesday?" he splutters. "As in three days from now?"
I nod. "I'll be moving in with him the same day."
"This is insane," he mutters, reaching for a half-empty beer on the table.
I snatch it away before his fingers can close around it. "What's insane is letting Mom's house slip away when we have a solution right in front of us."
"And after?" he demands, glaring at me for taking the beer. "When he has his kids back and doesn't need you anymore?"
"We'll divorce," I say simply. "I'll come home with enough money to keep the house afloat until you can get back on your feet."
He looks away, jaw clenched. "You shouldn't have to do this."
"No, I shouldn't," I agree softly. "But here we are."
We sit in silence for a moment, the weight of our reality pressing down on both of us. I know he feels guilty—he should—but guilt doesn't pay the mortgage.
"What about this place while you're gone?" he finally asks.
"I'll still come by on weekends," I promise. "Clean up, stock the fridge, check the mail. Nothing much will change except where I sleep."
"And that you'll be married," he adds dryly.
"Yes, well." I shrug. "Small details."
Dad shakes his head, but I can see the fight draining out of him. He knows as well as I do that we're out of options.
"I'd like you to be there," I say more gently. "At the courthouse on Tuesday."
He looks up, surprise flickering across his face. "Why?"
"Because you're my father," I say simply. "And despite everything, I'd like your support."
Dad studies me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he sighs heavily. "What time?"
Relief washes through me. "Eleven. Hudson's arranging everything with the justice of the peace."
He nods once, then pushes himself up from the couch. "I need to get some sleep. Early interview with the folks investigating the station tomorrow."
"Dad," I call as he heads toward his bedroom. "Thank you."
He pauses, back to me. "Your mother would kick my ass if she knew I was letting you do this."
"Mom would understand doing what needs to be done to save what matters," I say quietly. "She always did."
His shoulders tense, then drop. Without another word, he disappears down the hall, the click of his bedroom door echoing in the silent house.
I sink back into the armchair, suddenly exhausted. This is really happening. In three days, I'll be Mrs. Hudson Wilder, stepmother to three girls, living in a house on the mountain with a man I barely know but somehow can't stop thinking about.
I pull out my phone and text Hudson.
Me: It's settled. Tuesday at the courthouse. My dad will be there.
His response comes almost immediately.
Hudson: You sure about this, Goldie?
I smile at the nickname, typing back.
Me: Never been more sure of anything. For your girls. For my house. For us.
There's a longer pause before his reply appears.
Hudson: For us. Tuesday it is.
I press the phone to my chest, heart fluttering despite all my practical reasoning. This is just a business arrangement, I remind myself. A means to an end for both of us.
But as I head upstairs to my bedroom, I can't help wondering if maybe, just maybe, it could become something more.
I think of the way Hudson looked at me in his kitchen, the electricity when our hands touched, the heat in his eyes when he said we could "revisit" the physical aspects of our arrangement. ..
Three days until I become Mrs. Wilder. Three days until I move into that beautiful mountain house with that intense, complicated man and his three daughters.
Three days until everything changes.
I fall asleep thinking of dark eyes and strong hands, of little girls' laughter and a home filled with warmth. In my dreams, this won’t be just a business arrangement at all. In my dreams, it'll be real.